North of Grand: A Detective Red Shaw Novel

By B.J. Smith

Young cyclist Zach Costa turns up dead outside the central transit station on a muggy August morning in Des Moines and the heat is on. Detective Edward “Red” Shaw and his partner, Phil Vega, look for the killer and find themselves probing the sometimes toxic, hyper-competitive world of amateur bicycle racing. The detectives are on the crime scene early but hardly at their best. Shaw is hobbled by a knee injury from his final confrontation with a murderous sociopath who almost killed him, and it’s Vega’s first day back after breaking his leg in a car wreck.

Costa died wearing cleated cycling shoes. Dried blood from a head wound and a trace of white powder near his feet tell the cops part of the story, and there’s no sign of his vintage Schwinn racing bike. A simple robbery gone wrong? With the victim’s body hidden in a storage locker? Who killed the cyclist, and why?

The answers are somewhere in a tangled web of cryptic social media messaging, stolen property, drug trafficking, and murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: B.J. Smith
• Release date: Apr 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463920053

B.J. Smith

B.J. Smith writes fiction, essays, poetry and technical prose. As a daily newspaper reporter, he covered education, police and courthouse beats at various times. He also edited nationally syndicated opinion, health and home-repair columns, and proofread crossword puzzles (a task that inspired his first crime novel, by the way).A cyclist, hiker, University of Iowa grad, U.S. Navy veteran, former PR guy – and onetime soda jerk, busboy and dishwasher – he publishes a blog at https://smithcompound.blog.He and his wife, Susan, live in Grand Junction, Colorado. They enjoy bicycling, hiking and snowshoeing in the mountains.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Zach Costa didn’t see what killed him. Even if he had, he couldn’t have told anyone before his swelling, bleeding brain shut down for good. It took a few minutes.

First there was nothing. Then came a semi-conscious awareness of crushing pain, hands pushing him, probing his pockets, pulling an arm, a leg. He heard a voice, someone whispering angry words he didn’t understand. He tried to speak. He saw his mother, his brother. An older man, too. Pop? A vision of Emma floated by. She was naked, beckoning. He tried to reach out but his hands hit an invisible barrier. She faded into nothing.

He tried to remember something he was supposed to do. Get to class on time? Take out the trash? Get the box. That was it. If he could just get the box, he could ride on home.

The pain turned to fire and blinding light and then it stopped.

* * *

The Monday morning sun came up hot and right on schedule. For Detective Sergeant Edward Shaw it seemed way too hot and a little too early, but it’s what you get in the Midwest in August. The weather guy said it might be another triple-digit record, with humidity in the high nineties yet again. Shaw took a cold shower, dressed in front of the window AC unit, then said goodbye to being dry and comfortable for the day. The best he could hope for was to not soak clear through his usual blue oxford shirt and blue cotton sport coat before he got to work.

He took a quick look around the one-bedroom walk-up he’d just moved into, muttered to himself that it would do, then made his way downstairs and out to the parking lot. He started his aging Buick Regal and cranked the air all the way up, hoping in vain that it might make a difference. It blew hot air and showed no signs that it would do otherwise. Swearing, he got out, took off the coat and tossed it on the back seat. He told himself he would take the time to get the dying beast serviced one of these days. Slipping behind the wheel again, he ran the windows down and let the fan blow warm air around as he drove east on Ingersoll. Within minutes he was parked in his usual spot outside 25 East First, the riverside Beaux-Arts monument known as the Des Moines Police Station. He left the car windows open and walked around to the main entrance with the coat slung over a shoulder and sweat running down his back. This would be a good day to stay indoors, he told himself, if only everyone would behave. Fat chance.

* * *

Vega’s back. That was Shaw’s first thought when he saw his partner strolling down the hallway.

It’s about time. That was his second.

I could have used your help over the last few weeks, slacker, Shaw said as Vega reclaimed his office chair.

You did have my help, Red, Vega said. I prayed for you every night. I’m probably the only reason you’re alive.

Shaw couldn’t argue. If not for the skill of a Des Moines PD sharpshooter, and just possibly Phil Vega’s prayers, he might have ended up on the wrong side of a recent deadly confrontation with the late assistant county attorney. It could have been his last confrontation with anyone. Shaw had been lucky to escape with a bruised kneecap and some sprained ligaments.

I’m pretty sure part of it was dumb luck, Phil, he said, but thanks for your spiritual support anyway.

"Don’t mention it. And I think you meant dumb-ass luck."

Shaw silently gave him another point, then pretended to focus on his computer monitor as he watched Vega fire up his own machine and log in. Phil had gained some weight but otherwise hadn’t changed much while he was out with a badly broken leg from a car accident. Clean-shaven, with a fresh haircut, he looked rested and ready to get back to the business of catching bad guys. Shaw recognized the necktie Vega wore every Monday with the same summer-weight khaki blazer. Except for Vega’s darker complexion and jet-black mane, and Shaw’s fair skin and thinning, sandy-gray hair, the two had much in common. Not quite six feet tall, both were fit and athletic, at least when they weren’t rehabbing from injuries. Their taste in clothing ran all the way from dull to boring.

Vega noticed his partner watching him. What is it, Red? I got something on my face?

Just your usual baffled and confused thing.

Vega laughed. Yeah, it’s so good to be back.

Shaw rolled his chair back and pulled at the damp front of his shirt, trying to shake it dry. Once you get settled, I’ll fill you in on a couple of cases. He glanced over at his partner and gave up on the shirt. How’s your leg, by the way? Okay after all the R&R? I didn’t notice you limping your way in.

Vega slipped off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. Pretty well healed. Just don’t expect me to outrun you for a couple more days. How’s the knee?

What a pair we make, Shaw thought. Gimp and gimper. Vega’s leg injury was far more serious. Compound fracture, tibia. Shaw had been off his own crutches for just two days. He lied. Good as new. Maybe better.

Vega looked him over. Not sure I believe you.

Whatever, Shaw said. He stood and headed for the stairs, trying hard not to limp. I’ll be back in fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Some H.R. crap I have to deal with. Then we’ll talk about Sacco and Vanzetti if you’re ready. You heard about the latest appeal, right?

Vega groaned and waved him away. I heard, he said. Take your time.

* * *

If there was one case Vega wished would go away, it was Sacco and Vanzetti. He knew Shaw felt the same, only more so. The present-day convicts’ real names were Sarcone and Valenti. The reference to the now ancient-history S&V case was Shaw’s invention, as he said, to distinguish these assholes from all the respectable Sarcones and Valentis in this town. Vega actually checked a phone book once and saw there really were quite a few Sarcones and Valentis in the metro area. Among the large numbers of Italians and Irish and Poles and a small minority of African Americans and Asians there were also some long-established Hispanic families, including Vega’s own. Newer immigrants from Mexico and points south were growing in number along with Somalis, Sudanese and Syrians. While the refugees didn’t all prosper, at least their risk of death by barrel bomb or machete were slim to none in Des Moines.

Vega pulled two thick folders from a drawer to start getting back up to speed on the case. In addition to their previous records as small-time thieves, Sonny Sarcone and Marco Valenti were convicted in the kidnapping and murders of two 13-year-old girls in 1993. The teens turned up dead a few hours after leaving Birdland Pool one hot summer evening. They’d been stabbed and strangled.

Sarcone and Valenti roughly matched a description provided by a witness to the snatch and grab. As dumb as they were in other ways, the suspects hadn’t left any physical evidence investigators could find. There was no evidence either girl had been sexually assaulted. A Polk County jury convicted the pair in 1995 on the strength of the description, a pile of circumstantial evidence, and Valenti’s confession, which he now insisted had been coerced.

By Red Shaw.

Sarcone was no longer an issue. He was dead.

~~~~

Chapter 2

Gina Miller was new at her job with DART, the local transit authority, having just graduated with an associate degree in business administration she hoped would lead to something more advanced, not to mention more lucrative. Her internship the summer before had gone well enough, so she applied for the clerk position. Here she was.

The task she felt was most useful, though not especially challenging, was processing bicycle parking applications. She had a pass of her own. When the weather was warm and dry, she pedaled three miles to work, swiped her card to get into the Central Station’s indoor storage room, and locked her new town bike to a rack. Several times a week she fielded requests for information, new or replacement smart cards for the indoor parking cage or the outdoor bicycle lockers or help with unresponsive locks. As smart as most of these people seemed to be, judging by their choice of transportation, some were way too prone to losing or damaging their cards. Usually this happened on a Friday and the bike needed to be set free before a beer ride. Fortunately for them, she could open lockers remotely if desperate callers could prove who they were.

This was a Monday morning, though. She’d barely had a chance to sip her latte when a tweet caught her attention. Her iPad was set to chirp whenever Twitter found a new reference to any of several hashtags she followed.

@ozoneia234 - Smells like something fuckin died over here. #dsmcycling

@3speederman - Where at? It stunk over at the bus sta this am. #dsmcycling

A few minutes later …

@ozoneia234 - Cops here now. Imma video this. #dsmcycling

Gina wondered if someone had done the roadkill thing again, like the kids with the raccoon the summer before who had unwittingly proven the need to secure even unused lockers. August again. It had been hotter than a fricking oven.

Expecting a call from whoever Des Moines PD had at the scene, she logged in to the security system. All she needed was the locker number and she could let the cops open it. It didn’t take long to hear from them.

This is Officer Mueller of the Des Moines Police Department, a familiar voice said when she picked up.

Hi Dan. Are you at that stinkin’ locker I’ve been hearing about?

You’re good, Gina, he said. Yeah, can you hack B6 open for me?

She typed in the ID and hit a key. Done. Tell me what’s in there. Five bucks says it’s a possum.

Hang on. … Five says roadkill raccoon again.

She heard him tell someone to step back, then he told his partner to open the locker.

Ah, shit, she heard next, then a scream, which she assumed came from a bystander.

Jesus Christ, shut the fuckin’ door, man, Mueller said. Gina, I gotta go.

What? What is it?

Dead guy.

~~~~

Chapter 3

Shaw’s twenty-minute estimate was about forty minutes short. Vega started to ask what had held him up, but Shaw cut him off. We’ve got a body to look at. I’ll drive. Fill you in on the way.

They were at the scene in five minutes. Shaw parked the Regal between two idling buses.

Christ, I can smell it from here, Vega said after three steps from the car. How long do you think?

Shaw sniffed the air. Two days, maybe less as hot as it’s been.

A breeze would be nice, Vega said as they stepped over the sagging crime scene tape. A patrolman moved away from the open locker to let the DMPD photographer shoot inside.

You called it in, right? Shaw asked.

Right, Detective, Mueller said. We just now opened the locker again. I got a quick look when we first arrived on the scene. Someone reported the decomp odor and we called DART to unlock it.

Bike in there? Vega asked.

Bike?

"Yes, Officer Mueller. Was there a bicycle?"

Oh, right. Uh, no bicycle, just the body. That’s about all there’s room for.

Shaw surveyed the scene, hoping to find a security camera. Nothing obvious. A handful of gawkers stood nearby. One scruffy young man, his head wrapped in a dark green bandana, appeared to be recording the scene, panning the area with a smartphone.

Vega waved the police photographer off and stooped in front of the locker. He covered his nose with a handkerchief and peered inside. The interior was hard to make out in any detail with the locker backlit by the summer sun.

Can we get some light in there? he asked the crime scene technician kneeling next to him. The tech handed him a flashlight. Vega clicked it on and turned back to the body.

What do you see in there, Phil? Shaw asked from behind.

Dead guy.

Still the smartass. What else?

Not much of anything. Some flies, maggots. Empty Starbucks cup, some other trash, otherwise just him. Vega stood and handed him the flashlight. You take a look. I think that’s blood by his head.

Shaw braced himself for the pain he knew would come, then did a deep knee bend into his old catcher’s crouch, wondering if Vega could hear the joints pop. He shined the light inside and fought off a reflexive gag.

The body lay on its left side, back against the left side of the locker, pale face toward the top, eyes wide open. The knees were drawn up slightly, leaving the feet near the opening. Metal cleats on the soles of the shoes told Shaw the victim was a cyclist. He studied the interior walls and the space in front of the locker.

Shaw clicked off the light and stood. He noticed the popping wasn’t so bad unbending the knees. The pain was another matter.

I couldn’t see much the way he’s lying there but we’ll find a hell of a head wound once we get him out of there, Shaw said, brushing some invisible dirt from his trouser legs.

I expect you’re right, Vega said.

It happens, partner.

Vega made a show of looking around, arms spread wide. So where’s the bicycle?

Shaw looked back at the locker and scanned the surrounding area. Good question, Detective. I expect we’ll find out it was stolen.

A flurry of movement just outside the yellow tape caught Shaw’s eye. A newspaper photographer argued with a patrolman who wouldn’t let her get as close as she wanted. She waved. Shaw knew her from previous crime scenes. Lucy Something-or-Other. Cute but annoying.

Detective! Can you move just a little to the left?

Shaw shook his head, wondering why in the hell the privacy screens weren’t up yet. He looked around for signs of the medical examiner. Not seeing anyone, he turned his attention back to the body and continued to block Lucy’s view. Vega was on his hands and knees again with the flashlight, carefully taking a deeper look inside the locker. He’d either adjusted to the stench or put a healthy glob of Vicks under his nose.

Don’t get stuck in there, Detective, Shaw said. When you’re done, let’s keep it shut until we get some screens up. He couldn’t make out Vega’s muffled response but guessed it was neither polite nor English.

The locker looked to be roughly three feet by six, and about four feet tall. It sat at the end of a row of six identical units, each with a matching locker stacked on top. Small louvers on each side of the door hadn’t done much to ventilate the one holding the body. A metal tag ID’d it as locker B6. Shaw pulled out his cell and hit 4 to speed dial the Polk County medical examiner. Dr. Paul Penawalt picked up on the third ring.

Hey, Red, Penawalt said. What have you got this time?

A body, Penny.

No shit. You never call just to chitchat.

Are you on your way?

I’m not, but if you’re at the bus station I’ve got someone heading over. They should be there any minute.

Shaw swore. Any minute had a way of meaning whenever they damn well get there. Okay, I’ll keep an eye out. You’ll do the post-mortem yourself?

Yeah, I can do that for you. Anything obvious? Gunshot wound, maybe?

A voice just outside the crime scene caught Shaw’s attention. "Nada, gotta go," he said as he slid the cell back in his coat pocket and stepped toward the sound.

Mueller had a firm grip on the handlebar of a bright pink bicycle with fat tires. He struggled to restrain a woman from slipping under the yellow tape with it. Lucy Something-or-Other was shooting the tussle.

I need to get to my locker, dammit! I’m going to be late! the woman barked at Mueller.

The patrolman started to respond but Shaw interrupted. Officer Mueller, let the lady in, please.

Mueller stopped but kept the woman at bay as he turned to Shaw with an are-you-serious look on his face. Shaw’s barely perceptible nod told him yes, he was serious, so Mueller released the handlebar and lifted the tape. Shaw stopped the woman before she could reach the lockers. He wondered how bicycling in a skirt worked out.

Which one of these lockers is yours, Miss … ? he asked.

Second from the end, she said, pointing toward where Vega now stood. B5. She looked up at Shaw. What’s the problem, Officer?

Detective. Shaw. He showed her his badge. When’s the last time you used your locker?

A couple of days ago, after work. She started to edge around him, taking in more of the scene. What’s going on … ?

Did you notice anyone else here, Miss … ? He could see the odor hit her before she spoke again.

Oh God, what’s that smell? She covered her mouth and nose with both hands and backed away, letting her bicycle clatter to the concrete. Mueller caught her as she tripped, then led her to a bench just outside the tape.

Shaw took him aside when he came back. Get her ID so we can reach her later if she has to take off, he said. Mueller nodded. And the guy with the smartphone over there, with the beard and the bandana. See if he has anything we can use.

Already talked to him, Detective, Mueller said, glancing at a notepad. "Name’s Omari Ziadeh. He’s been uploading video to YouTube but says he